


Pertaining to Practice

by recrudescence



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck really likes Casey's bed and Casey really likes doing laundry. There's got to be a happy medium somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pertaining to Practice

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with Nakeno.

One thing Chuck really enjoys is getting intimately acquainted with Casey's bed. Custom-built and _big_, soft as sin and currently bare save for a mattress-pad and Chuck. Who happens to be sprawled out spread-eagle on his stomach, eyes closed and smiling dreamily and nuzzling his cheek against it.

 

Just. Wow. It's a really, really, _really _nice bed. Chuck only has to flop into it and he's out like a light. Made of win.

 

Unless Casey's also in it, which just means other winsome things get to happen.

 

Aside from the _smacking _part. That just has him squirming and _owwwww_ing and twisting to survey the damage done.

 

Because that’s what Casey does to interrupt his bliss: _smacks _him. Just to make him shriek like a little girl (he _doesn’t_). And probably because he’s a _sadist _who thinks his handprint is a nice accessory or something. "Quit frotting my bed, you freak." Matter-of-factly.

 

"I'd do it to _you _if you were in it." In that _duh_ voice.

 

"Well, I had to strip the sheets." Casey is religiously rigid about getting mundane household chores done, especially for someone who has so many bigger fish to fry. Maybe he gets something out of having a routine while he’s able. “Don’t have a big sister to pick up after me like some people.” As it turns out, Casey doesn't just like teasing him verbally, he likes teasing him _physically, _and Chuck is generally okay with that. But being _struck_ does not count as _teasing_. More like _abuse_ of government property. Hmph.

 

Casey just blinks when he says as much. "Shut up, Bartowski." Affable as can be.

 

Still. He really doesn't want to leave the bed. Sniffing, propped up on an elbow, the other stretched behind him to soothe the already fading sting on his bare skin. Obviously, the only answer is to get Casey _in _it. He does his best to try to hook an ankle around some part of him and _tug, _but that's just sloppy with someone like Casey, who snorts and shoves him over.

 

Try another tactic. Moving up onto his knees and walking on them to the edge of the bed, reaching out for a hold of Casey's side and hip to steady him, as he's wobbly. Eyebrows waggling. Casey's face just as stoic as ever. It always is. Like he's testing himself—seeing how long he can keep an impassive veneer before he breaks all over again.

 

Now Casey’s grumbling about playing the awkward ingénue doesn't count if you aren't actually _playing_, but there's _definitely _a different response going on inside those neatly pressed pants, so Chuck just half-shrugs and lays his cheek against it. Fingers flick-toying with the clasp of that belt.

 

"I'm not just after you for your bed, I swear." Casey does have other redeeming qualities. Quite a few.

 

Can't help that one of them happens to be in his pants.

 

Humming quietly, lips curling where his face is still against the front of said pants. Pants Chuck is deliberately as clumsy as possible with when he undoes the button.

"I mean," he continues, letting himself ramble in that way that never fails to get some kind of response from Casey, even if it's usually a really irritated one, "I can just _go _if you want, if you'd really like some quality time with your mattress, but the thing is, it's not really looking that way, huh?" Slipping fingers between the parted fly and letting them graze along the front of Casey's boxers.

 

\---

 

_Shit_. The left side of Chuck's bottom lip caught in his own teeth, head ducking a little, eyes up through his lashes, fingering at Casey's belt. Looking _shy_, and _why_ is that fucking hot? There's _no_ reason that should be hot to him... None whatsoever. But Casey's hand is tightening in that wildly curled hair on instinct, eyes fluttering shut briefly as he swallows, then blinks them open again, gaze downward. Thumb stroking updown there at the neckline where the hair begins to thin.

 

There’s that quiet vibration from Chuck’s humming and muttering, where’s he’s ducked at _crotch-level_, and Casey swallows around a suddenly dry mouth, dry throat. Play-acting at being coy and cutely fumbling, which just makes Casey _really_ want to throttle him. Or pin him down and fuck him; he hasn't decided yet. Hand squeeze-releasing, squeeze-releasing around those locks of silky-clean hair. Chuck's mouth. Running. As usual. Pale fingers on a pale hand and wrist, reaching up, reaching in; Casey's hips canting forward slightly. He's hard now, no doubt about it. His eyes are darkened, half closed. His voice is husky-heated and the words are simple, "Suck me."

 

An eyebrow quirking in tandem with Chuck's lips, which he clearly doesn't even bother preventing from spreading into a grin, the brat. "Yes, _sir_."

 

There's some part of Casey that gets _off _on this like nothing else, Chuck just doing as he says with no protesting and no questions asked, for once. Folding cloth back under his fingers, Chuck letting the tip of his tongue graze the join of thigh and body as he's tugging those pants _lower_. Shifting this way and that just enough, Casey can tell, to feel the force of Casey’s hand caught in his hair.

 

Chuck's tongue is sweet and fleeting on his skin—making him shift forward a little, consciously biting back on any noise he might make. Or any _threat_ he might utter from Chuck tacking a 'sir' on the end of another sentence. But Chuck’s not talking now, just adjusting where he's sitting up on his knees; Casey's hand tightening somewhat, from crown to nape, _touching_. His other hand up from his side to press back all that unruly hair from Chuck's brow instead. It's not affection; he just wants to _see_.

 

\---

 

In Chuck’s opinion, something about getting Casey all unspooled on his own turf is just _cool. _Almost as good as actual sex, but that part's pretty crucial too.

 

Besides, Casey's unnerved _him _on his own turf millions of times, so turning the tables is in order every now and then. The more he learns about Casey's preferences, the more he can use them against him. In the most mutually beneficial ways possible. So he sighs a little, wiggles a little, makes sure to keep his grip just a tad too loose when he works a hand under the elastic waistband and circles his fingers around the length of him. Let those shorts slip down and his tongue slip up and _up_ all that dark-flushed flesh until he's lapping in a small circle just around the crown of it.

 

He hasn't ever had to screw anyone in the line of duty, but _Casey_ has, and it gives Chuck a little bit of a power rush knowing that this is really and truly for _pleasure _and not work.

 

It's crossed his mind that he could be wrong on that front, but he really can't think of a reason for Casey to get contracted into sleeping with him and it's not the kind of thing he likes dwelling on anyway. Better to just concentrate on getting those curses and growls rasping heatedly out of Casey's throat. Ducking down in response to the firmer grip on his nape, meek and obedient and eager to please—_that _has to be getting Casey all worked up—and molding his tongue to the shape of him. Wet and heated and taking him _in, _audibly and all at once.

 

\---

 

"_Fuck_..." Hissed and soft, scarcely above a whisper. On second thought, perhaps getting a clear view wasn't the best idea. Just _watching_ him, _licking_ up and lapping at him like he's some obscene dessert, just the _look_ of it, much less the _feel_ of it, making him _throb_. So Casey’s head goes tipping up, chin up, until he’s leveling his gaze at the opposite wall instead. His expression stubborn but breaking down quickly, his hand still at the back of that neck.

 

Casey _squeezes_ there again, bears down a little bit and Chuck? Chuck simply acquiesces. No smart remarks, no teasing, no grinning or joking, just lowers his head and _does_ it—and _fuck_, that is... _That. Is_... Casey's mouth falling open silently, brow furrowing and hips _pushing_; the head of him between those pink-pursed, sensual lips and then nothing but wetness, _heat_ and firm suction. Casey's hand stuttering down to grasp a shoulder, fingers digging in, breath _hiccupping_ into him as his hips roll forward, eyes squeezing shut. Fuck. Fuckfuck_fuck_; fuck his mouth, fuck his mouth and come there, too, and he just might come right then and there from the thought of it. Chuck swallowing around him compliantly, brown eyes up at him through those lashes like they were before, like he's waiting for some kind of _praise_.

  
The cliche of lacking in finesse but making up for it in enthusiasm comes to mind. If anything at all comes to mind, with the bright spots of white sparking behind his squeezed-shut eyes, mouth hanging ajar and that image of Chuck fucking _Bartowski_ playing sweet-coy and _timid_.  The shy violet.  _Right_.  Still, there's something in Casey that responds soso_so_ readily to that act of submissiveness.  Strongly, too.  A quick-hard _surge_ through him, his hands unsteady and grasping, half petting, half kneading-- he doesn't _push_ at him, though.  Because, let's be honest, he doesn't like when a guy grabs him by the ears and tries to direct his head when he _knows_ what the fuck he's doing.  Chuck?  Not so much; but it's hotwet and _good_ and he has no one to blame if Casey accidentally makes a mess of him.

  
Accidentally.

\---

Yeah, like that. _Just _like that. Casey _loves _getting him to shut up, even though Chuck doesn't realize he's rattling on half the time because that's just how his thought processes manifest themselves--verbally and all at once.

 

But getting to use that quirk to his advantage by letting Casey control it—that's actually something of a perk for him too, because now? Casey is gasping, low hot-harsh and ragged, breaths all messed up and hands clenching divots into Chuck's bare shoulders. His fingers are a slick mess and _gripping_, artlessly but fervently, slip-squeezing and _sucking _just to keep on _hearing _him like that. Big, bad Casey, getting the rug pulled out from under him. Chuck's eyes are closed, cheeks burning, and Casey's super-comfortable bed is there to keep him in place when he takes _himself _in his free hand and can't hold back a quiet whine.

 

Chuck's head moving a little lower, mouth parting wider, because Casey's fingers are firm and uncompromising against his skin and he reallyreally _likes_ the way he can feel the tension building in Casey's body. Cinching _tighter_ with his hand, taking him in a little more, making a _mess_ because being eager to please and not having a lot of firsthand efforts in this particular kind of pleasing tend to make that happen, but all the same his eyes are half-shut and he's sucksucksucking like he can't get _enough_ of him, tasting him this way and _waiting_ for Casey to _lose_ it.

  


\---

  
It had all started off as predictably as could be expected—considering neither of them had actually _foreseen _this happening—with Casey bossing around Chuck in the bedroom same as he does on their missions. Only in _these_ situations, he’d found himself waiting for Bartowski to get brave enough to boss back.

 

 

Which he does, now and then. In a teenage kind of way. Clambering and rearranging things all over the place, frantic and flighty. Casey somehow ends up finding a small well of patience anyway. Sometimes. "Look, I know _you're_ used to being the one that sexes you, but Jesus... there's _two_ of us now." "Just living in the moment!"

 

All kinds of exchanges occurring in this vein once Chuck had gotten comfortable with the idea that Casey wasn't just gonna cuff him to the headboard and leave him there—which would be really low, since Casey's _been_ there. And as nice as Chuck might find Casey’s bedroom, chances are he doesn't wanna live in it forever. And now, Casey’s standing there fully clothed save for his bare toes curling into the thick, dark grey thread of his carpet.  Fully clothed save for his jeans parted and Chuck's head between his thighs; that hand, soft-smooth-tipped from a lifetime of tapping at a keyboard, firm and fairly confident in its grasp.  Casey tilts his hips in, carefully; knows the kid's limits, hands clenching wild curls and head lagging forward, a little rush of quiet sounds.  Like he's enduring some kind of agony that's dragging the noise out of him from around his grinding teeth.  He doesn't warn him—when does Casey, ever?—just grip-steadies Chuck on his knees there on his damn _bed_, and makes a hard-harsh hitched sound as he spills over into the inept suction of Chuck's mouth. _Cursing_.

  
One intense wave after another of his orgasm; during it, Bartowski's name might have come out of him in a mumble. Might have.

  
Both of his hands on Chuck's shoulders, allowing them to support him, however briefly. And that definitely means _something_, though Casey is too hazy-minded to care what. Instead he grips there firmly and heaves, pushing him back, watching Chuck topple and following almost immediately; knee to the bed, jeans still open, cock still exposed, but it's all secondary from the need of getting his hands back in Chuck's hair and interrogating that mouth good and proper with the whole of his tongue.

  
Bartowski just wriggles back, gets even more _comfortable_ on that bare mattress. Thorough push of his tongue through that mouth, the lingering taste of _himself_ there.  Drawing his head back in order to hook a finger under that chin, tip his head back and mouthing down that smooth-long neck. Denim thigh between his legs, pushing at the right angle.

  
And, really, he could just untangle himself, get to his feet, zip himself up and walk out.  It would be _one_ way to get Chuck out of the bed.  But what he ends up doing is smearing his mouth down the kid’s middle after rucking his shirt up under his throat, tongue flickering into his navel to feel him jerk.

\---

Chuck is incredibly pleased with himself. _He_ did that. _He_ got John Casey off, coaxed him into one of those moments of actual humanness, and that is just _awesome_, for lack of a better word. Swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing a little before his face gets swept up in a stupid-wide grin that's probably gonna get him a patented Casey eye-roll, but whatever.

  
Content to let himself get manhandled onto his back, limbs splayed every which way as Casey crawls overtop him like a large cat stalking its prey instead. And for some reason, that doesn't bother Chuck in the least. Taste of Casey still in his mouth, that faintly unfocused look still in Casey's eyes, and he idly grazes fingers over his cock again, just watching. Watching and shifting a bit against that fantastic mattress.

  
Getting teased _this_ way by Casey is much more preferable to getting teased by the usual round of snorted insults. Though Chuck just lets those roll right off him anyway, so it's no wonder Casey's got a new tactic. _Licking_ at him until he bucks up off the bed is a really nice start. "H-hey, so...thought you were doing laundry?"

  
"Yeah, want me to do you on top of the dryer?" Completely serious tone, hands feathering down spread thighs. Cupping the insides of them, coaxing them open more so and humming into a hipbone.

  
He totally doesn't squeak when that mouth travels _lower_. God, you'd think he'd never had _sex_ before, and while up till this Casey thing it had _been_ a while, it isn't something a person forgets how to do. And Chuck had been concerned on that front for a little bit. "Huh." Legs parting more, since there's no reason to discourage Casey when he's on a mission. "You and your home appliances..." A shoulder up. "Not gonna lie, that would be interesting. Only...maybe not comfortable?" Especially compared to the bed. Mmm, Casey's bed...

  
"Front-loader. Quiet mode. _Nine_ cycles. Moisture sensor. 28.25 inches of Top of the Line Drying Technology." _Smugly_. Nose bumping along the length of Chuck's erection, pressed up along his belly and flushed full and hard. Mouthing lightly. Just... taking his time. Chuck’s nose wrinkles slightly and he _squirms_.

  
"_Nine_?" For some reason, that's the first thing he thinks to address, even though Casey's kissing him in an especially sensitive area. "What do you even _need_ that for?"

  
"_Delicates_," huffed with humor as Casey's wrapping a dauntingly big, ever-capable hand around him and slipping his lips neatly over the head.

  
It's on the tip of his tongue to ask what kind of _delicates_ a guy like Casey has lying around, but then the tip of _Casey's_ tongue is doing even more distracting things to him, so he lets that slide. Same time as a long sigh slides out of his mouth and his body goes slack where he's still propped on his elbows.

  
Casey doesn’t even laugh at him. Laundry forgotten for now, delicates included, in favor of going at it on Casey’s mattress. And Chuck can’t help feeling a like he’s scored a few points for getting his way without too much hassle.

  
Honestly, it’s nice to pull one over on the master every now and then.


End file.
